


Bitter Are the Choices We Make

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:53:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young human raised in Rivendell now desires one of her lord's own, one which he would not dare take from the family of Elrond. However, some bitter choices are made without Estel's consent, and now the daughter of the fair Lady of Imladris is destined to die. Based actually before Arwen is counted amongst Men, but after her mind is made up. Aragorn is about forty-seven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Are the Choices We Make

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Disclaimer: I do not own anything in Middle-Earth. It is the property of the great Professor Tolkien and all his heirs. Eru bless him for creating such magnificence. Any canon errors are of my own accord; I am no expert on Middle-Earth and never have claimed to be. 

***Important*** I do not know exactly how the Choice process works, but this is my rendition of it. If I am wrong, I would know. And just to make sure that you know (in case you didn’t read the entire above summary) this is actually based before Arwen is mortal, though she knows that she cannot bear to be one of the immortals any longer.

I dedicate this story to my wonderful seler, without whom none of this would be possible. Hannon le, seler!

-OoOoO-

Arwen has told me of her choice. I never wanted this to happen! Curse Men and their mortality. Curse my parents for being mortal. Curse the Valar and their cruel games of Fate. Curse me.

My beloved Arwen has chosen to share my destiny, my doom. The beautiful half-elven lady, daughter of the man whom I had once called Father, is going to die for me, for my love. I do not deserve her love, only her contempt, and the contempt of every immortal being on this dark earth. 

_‘It is my Choice,’_ she had whispered to me. I couldn’t believe my ears. As always, I envy the keen elven hearing that I will never have, though this time out of despair and disbelief. Perhaps my hearing has finally gone and I have only heard my worst nightmares. But nay, it is not to be so.

She has resigned herself to death, she fears it not, but should she suffer when she has done no wrong? My heart clenches in anger, in disgust, horrified at this very possibility. Her choice is breaking me. I have finally lost hope, the Hope that made me Estel. I have lost estel for all that is good and beautiful on Middle-Earth.

And I wait.

She cannot bear to tell Ada yet, and I do not blame her. This will crush the old elf who had so kindly taken me in and called me his own. I am not worthy of him. He should imprison me and leave me to rot. So should the elves I had once known as my brothers. Ai, what are they going to say?

They would be right in saying that I have somehow illusioned Arwen with promises of some illustrious life they know I cannot give. If they said that I was a blood traitor, I would not argue. How could I possibly hurt the only family I have known all my life, the ones who stood by me through the roughest times in my life, the ones who loved me and picked me up when I fell. 

I am worse than an orc.

A soft rapping on my door draws me out of my stupor and my heart begins racing. Surely that marks the arrival of my brothers—no, the _true_ sons of Elrond, I’ve no privilege to call them brothers any longer. Arwen would have told them first, to await their reactions and strengthen her emotions at the reaction of her father, as he will surely break. 

“Estel?” a voice calls, but I cannot discern if it is resentful or just sorrowful. I know that Elladan is better at veiling his emotions, but usually he does not cloak them from me. My heart burns once again as the thought is reinforced that no longer will I be able to share in the carefree times with these elves whom I care so much about.

“Aragorn?” Elrohir’s choked voice calls after my rejection of answering his twin. The younger son of Elrond, no the _youngest_ son of Elrond, sounds upset, but also confused. I bet they never expected that I could do this to them. Truthfully, I never thought I could. I never wanted to.

The door opens when once again I do not speak. The faces of the Peredhil are tear-stained, and I look upon them painfully. Never should a Firstborn’s face carry the red and blotchy traces of grief.

“Estel?” Elladan questions, torn between running to embrace his baby brother, to ease the pain he knew the young human must be feeling, and asking him why, how could he possibly ask for Arwen? 

“I am what you call me,” I reply tonelessly. Inside, I am dying, screaming for Ilúvatar to free my tortured soul. To have to face the ones I hurt and love, to see their anguish, is far worse a punishment than any I can imagine.

“Estel, we only want to talk,” Elladan begins painfully.

“We have not come to disown you,” finishes his twin. By now, there are no confirmations needed—we all know what happened and that it is on the other’s mind.

“You are a son of Elrond and nothing can change that,” continues the other. “We do not blame you for Arwen’s choice.”

“But by now you should know that we need to talk.”

I feel the shameful sting of tears behind my lids as I close my eyes, preparing myself. Elrohir sets a chair by my bedside and Elladan leads me to sit on the comfortable cot. “I will leave at dusk,” I offer when I am confident that the tears will not escape. 

“If you do then we are going with you,” Elladan replies without remorse. Silence falls and I sit there, waiting for them to open the conversation, diplomatically arranging my apologies so that they make sense and my lords will accept them. My lords… suddenly I feel tears start anew, but stubbornly will not let them fall.

“Do you love her?” Elrohir had to know. He was confident that Estel would never intentionally hurt his sister and would provide for all her needs, but the elder brother instincts were just beginning to awaken as the situation sunk deeper into his consciousness, confirming its validity.

“Can you not see that I am not worthy of her?” I ask in an equally quiet voice in answer to his question. “How could a man do this to one whom he loves? How could I possibly ask her to forsake all she is in return of a life in the wilds? Even if I do become King, why would she want to live amongst Men? I have seen them. They are ruthless and cruel, caring only about how their decisions affect themselves, never once looking beyond the borders of their own lives to see another. They slaughter their own kin daily and have no remorse for it. They hold nothing dear except their own pitiful existence. Arwen deserves better.”

The twins looked at each other for a quick moment. They had their answer there. “You know that is not true,” Elladan tells me and I know that he is going to begin speaking of my father, my human father, long dead. Sometimes I cannot help but wonder was it justice that killed him? They tell me that he was a good man, but from what I have seen in my dealings with my own race, it seems that every one of them is somehow corrupt. I fear the same of myself, and after what is happening with Arwen, I know that I am destined to be exactly as all other men, no matter how hard I try to rebel against it.

“You come from a very long line of respectable men, dating all the way back to Beren,” Elrohir says, and now he tries to convince me with, “To speak ill of that lineage is to disrespect all those valiant men, even Ada himself. Perhaps those men fell, yes they did, just as Isildur did, but that does not erase all of their good deeds, which far outweigh their wicked ones. People seem to only remember the evil one does rather than the good.”

“El is correct, Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir of Isildur and Elendil,” Elladan uses my full name and I am not at all pleased to be reminded of my ancestry, no matter what Elrohir just said. It didn’t sound very convincing. The eldest son of Elrond sighed, knowing what was going through the mind of the young human. “You recall the stories of the sack of Sirion, how the sons of Fëanor captured Ada and Uncle Elros? When you were younger, you couldn’t believe that anyone could do that to your Ada. You always remembered how terribly cruel it was to imprison two young half-elves against their will and never forgave Maglor nor Maedhros. But did you ever take into account that these were the least twisted of all of Fëanor’s sons? Did you ever take time to tell everyone that yes, Ada was held prisoner, but later he was released? How Maglor never let any harm befall his two charges and became like a father to them? You do not need to tell me that it was because you were a youngster. The point is, you never remembered the good qualities of the dead. Believe us when we say that you have a lineage that should be carried with great pride.”

“Have you come here to increase my feelings of self-worth or to discuss your sister?” I ask viscously. I have known for years that my ancestors were respectable men, but that knowledge isn’t good enough where Arwen is concerned. Merely knowing how great they were has supported me through life, but others still consider Isildur and all those bearing his name weak. Why should Arwen walk with such a title, nay a _slur_ , marring her magnificence?

“Do not push us away, Estel,” Elrohir pleads quietly. He couldn’t take it if Aragorn pushed them away, on top of finding out that he was going to lose his sister one day and never see her again until the ending of the world, when Ilúvatar would let all His children rest in tandem. 

“I have to,” is all I can manage before I retreat from my room. I need a little fresh air, some time to think… to pack. They cannot possibly want me here! I am causing so much pain; the only reason they would want me to stay is because I am the heir to the throne of Gondor and the one whose destiny is to reunite the race of Men. I am old enough to take care of myself. Well, seeing as I got myself into this mess…. Still, I shouldn’t stay.

My heart yearns for some peace after my long journeys from which I have just returned, but I will have to find it elsewhere. I know that Elladan and Elrohir would have left my room by now, so I go there and begin removing all that is mine from my drawers, but nothing is truly mine, save for the ring of Barahir. These are all precious gifts from the elven Lord Elrond, more precious than I deserve, just like his daughter. This trip into the wilds, I will have to make it solely on my own skills. Not even the bow or swords are mine.

I turn to leave, but come face-to-face with the very one whom has given me shelter these past forty-five years. I cannot look the elderly elf in the eyes, to see those piercing grey orbs holding the condemnation that I so rightly deserve. 

When he speaks, his voice is strong as always, revealing no emotions. “Aragorn,” he says and I flinch. He always calls me Estel except when I have done something grievously wrong or when speaking of my lineage. I fear now that it is the former and I have no right to believe that he should ever call me by the name he bestowed upon the innocent child he had taken into his home. 

Elrond sighs and relents. No matter what Aragorn may think, the elf still loved him deeply and didn’t want the child to be nervous. “Estel, please sit down. We must talk.”

“My lord,” I begin, not trying to be disrespectful, as most children are when they call their parents by proper titles in the privacy of a conversation for their own good. “I must beg your pardon. I have outstayed my welcome here and am leaving. I—I cannot impart to you the dear one whom I have taken from you, and I shall regret it for the rest of my life, but I will burden you no more.”

Elrond waited for the youth to finish. “You have always spoken and acted rashly when you were confused,” he said. Is that amusement that I hear in his voice? The same amusement that he always looked upon me with when I returned from some journey, either carrying or being carried by one of my brothers? I open my mouth to speak, but no sounds are forthcoming, so Lord Elrond continues. “I cannot let you leave Imladris forever,” he says, to my utter astonishment, but continues, “for you have seen Vilya. If I cannot be assured of your return, of your loyalty, then I cannot risk the Enemy discovering where one of the Three is held.” I gape at him, sure that my lower jaw must be hanging open. I had thought to be approached by a concerned father and berated, cursed, for ever setting eyes upon his precious gem, but what he says is true. I have indeed seen the ring that my sire speaks of and it would be perilous information indeed in the hands of the Enemy. 

A sad smile slowly steals its way across the elf lord’s lips and the hardened features soften into the world-weary look I have not as often seen upon his fair face. “I was jesting,” he says and my confusion is not revoked. “I trust you implicitly, ion-nín,” he states and I resist the urge to wretch. I have no right to be called ‘my son’ by this venerable elf standing in front of me, and I know that he senses that. “Sit.”

I find myself obeying; it is the least I can possibly do for the one I have robbed. I have deprived him of the invaluable jewel of the Undómiel, Evenstar of her people. “Has Arwen spoken to you?” I feel the need to question and be certain. I must admit that the use of Vilya in jest has never been spoken about and its purpose still bewilders me. 

“She has,” he relents and I hear in his voice the exhaustion that comes with the passage of many Ages, a fatigue that should not plague the Eldar. “She wishes to be mortal,” he states simply, and I sense the animosity between us grow. “Her Choice is not yet final.”

Now surely my ears deceive me! How can such an impossible gift be bequeathed to me on this night? My beloved will not die, she will live forever and I will go to live amongst my people. She will live and thrive in the beauty that is Imladris, with the family she so richly deserves! I will rightly grow old and wither into nothingness, such is my lot, but Eru has seen to it that on this day, the Eldar will not lose their star. Arwen, whose beauty has been compared to that of Lady Lúthien, will not have to share her Fate. My heart sings. 

“For that, my lord, I am glad,” I say, with all the joy in my heart shining through my eyes. I bare my soul to him, to show him that I mean the words of which I speak. 

“I would that your heart be as carefree as it was when you were young,” Elrond’s concerned voice remarks, “but you have not been that child for many a year. You have grown, my Estel, into a man of whom I am proud.” I sit and wait. Why now has this conversation also turned towards strengthening my self-image? “Yet you do not know what you desire of me, heir of Isildur. I do not fault you for the workings of your heart and I know that you would willingly die for those of my blood, your blood, our shared blood through the bond of Men and Elves that Elros created so long ago. I see so much of him in you, ion-nín, that sometimes it pains me. He was a wise and just man, as you will be before your time is ended. 

“I know what you are feeling now. I have been down this very same dark, gloomy path myself. I can see in your eyes that you truly love her, that you would sacrifice all of Middle-Earth to preserve her splendor. Yet you are feeling traitor to those you have loved for a longer time, with the same amount of affection. I experienced much the same thing when I first met Celebrían. Never would Galadriel or Celeborn approve of me, I was sure. She was far too fair and no price was large enough to pay if only to gaze upon her once more. But I knew then what I shall tell you now, and that is that your journey has not even begun, and you are to betroth no man’s daughter. My heart shudders to think of what I fear you will have to face in the years to come.” He had been looking out of the window as he spoke of Celebrían, the one whom I had called Ammë most of my life but had never met. She, too, was a beautiful star of her people, daughter of the Lady and Lord of the Golden Wood. Orcs captured her and she was wounded where not even the best Healers in Middle-Earth could save her and Celebrían had long passed over the Sea, in search of gentler and happier lands. Now Lord Elrond looks back at me, a thousand emotions warring within his eyes as he bares his soul in return. The emotions in the largest quantity seem to be seriousness and sorrow. The others I cannot determine. “Prove yourself worthy of her, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and the Choice will be hers. But until you can do that, allow her to continue to be the Evenstar of her people.”

I bow my head in respect. This man wishes to remain diplomatic, not to hurt me. “Even to the most ignorant of fathers, no man is ever deserving of their daughter and for you I say it thrice. Never will a mere man be worthy of Arwen; not even another Eldar could truly be all that she deserves. I know this. If being a Man is the curse Ilúvatar has placed upon me, so be it. I will never take your daughter away from you, hir-nín.” With that said, I once again retreat from my quarters. I have no doubts that the words I spoke will have an impact on the Lord of Imladris, but they pained me so. I admitted to not being able to ever love Arwen as she deserves, as I know is true, and I said in no uncertain terms that I will never love her, never wed her, never sit next to her on the throne of Gondor, if that be my lot. 

“But, ion-nín, you already have,” Elrond said so quietly that he could not even hear himself as he watched the man leave the room. Darkness settled upon his heart. Where would they go from here?

“You walk a lonely path that leads to destruction,” a quiet voice compassionately remarks behind me. I do not even need to turn around to know that it is the Undómiel herself. 

“Your concern is ill-placed,” I say roughly, then turn around to face her. Seeing her fair features etched with sorrow robs me of any stern words I would have said to her. I cannot bear to tell her anything that would take even a drop of happiness from her life. My eyes seek solace in the hard-tiled flooring as I speak the next sentence, a sentence that I know I must say but yet burns me like a Balrog on the inside. “You can’t love me. I do not deserve your commitment and never can. I never—“ A soft hand placed consolingly upon my cheek stops me mid-sentence.

“Do not undermine yourself, heir of Isildur,” she whispers, her voice lulling me to lock eyes with hers. “You are far more than you deem. You just spoke with Ada, did you not?”

“I spoke with Lord Elrond, yes,” I reply, not knowing about my right to call him father, though he had been my sire for so long, and I opt to take the safer preference of words.

Arwen was not put off. “You spoke with _Ada_ , correct?” 

I look away for a moment and she gives me the time I need. My thoughts swirl painfully in my mind. I love this lady that stands so innocently in front of me. I am the reason that she is hurting. There is only one way to amend such wrongs that I have imposed, to heal them as much as possible.

I gently remove her hand from my cheek, inwardly protesting at the elimination the loving touch that I long to receive from her, and no other. Turning, I walk soundlessly down the hall, forcing my feet to heed my mind instead of dashing hastily away from her. I never once looked back. I couldn’t.

Arwen watched her beloved in dismal reticence. How desperately she longed to be able to live in peace with him, to make her father and her brothers happy, to make everything in the world right. Alas, that does not seem possible. If only Estel were an elf, then perhaps all would be well. When he was out of sight, she sighed and walked towards her own quarters, the acrid tears of the Eldar flowing freely down her face. At this rate, she feared that she would lose not only her family, but the love of her life as well.

-OoOoO-

Out in the fresh air with the sun shining merrily upon my face, I ready myself for my task. I cannot abide here. I go to the stables and prepare one of the horses, Elroch, a horse I have long loved, for my leave. Though this elvish horse clearly belongs to Imladris, I assume that it would be a small price to pay if I were leaving forever.

Am I to leave forever?

Ada’s past words still my movements for a fleeting moment. They seemed so sincere, and a part of my mind truly wants to believe, desperately wants to believe, that he spoke the truth from his heart. However, the more steadfast part of me knows that I will break five hearts, not just one, if I stay. So I mount my steed and spur him on with all the adrenaline that courses through my system. Softly, I bid farewell to the home that I have always loved. I know not if I shall return.

-OoOoO-

Elrond was still sitting in Estel’s room, contemplating their conversation and especially his foster son’s last words to him. Had Arwen not met the human in the hall, Elrond would’ve gone after him to set things right once and for all. He closed his eyes as he searched his heart, but not even the Wise could solve this quandary without bargaining with the Valar themselves. Perhaps he had indeed lived too long, long enough for all this pain to seem overwhelming. As he looked back on his life, the elven lord realized that a lot of it, most of the people he cared for, had made bitter partings with him. No. He couldn’t lose Arwen and add yet another to that list. He couldn’t lose his children.

Elladan and Elrohir hastened into the room, out of breath, which is unusual for the Firstborn, showing their concern. “Aragorn has left and Elroch is not in the stables,” Elladan informed his father, leaving no room for pleasantries, not that he felt there would be any in the House of Elrond on this day.

The Lord of Imladris did not open his eyes, but silently berated himself. Deep in his subconscious, he had known that this would happen and was now upset for not having stopped it before his son had left. 

“Ada?” Elrohir asked, the unspoken question between the family for permission to retrieve their lost brother. 

“Go find him and bring him back,” the broken-hearted father replied. Usually he would leave Aragorn to his thoughts and allow the young man to stay away for a time, but he knew that the human needed his family right now as much as they needed him. The twins obeyed at once, already having told the stable worker of their intentions before seeing their father.

“Estel was right,” Elrond muttered to himself, looking around the now-empty room.

Bitter are the Choices we make.


End file.
